


Trapped Between Two Lungs

by moonheist



Series: Banishment [2]
Category: Merlin (TV), Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Crossover Pairings, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder, War, ladies get shit done, magic visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:45:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4821029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonheist/pseuds/moonheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All she can smell is blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trapped Between Two Lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal January 22, 2010. Part 2 of 2.

_And my running feet could fly  
Each breath screaming  
‘We are too young to die’_

She smells blood long before they ever depart Camelot. The smell crawls into her nose and remains, stubborn like a fruit stain, no matter how hard she tries to wash it out. Gwen brings her fresh flowers each morning and Logan starts tucking single flowers from the castle garden behind her ear, and yet.

Not even the strongest perfumes can drown out the salty, bitter tang.

\--

The candle by Arthur’s bed has been lit and extinguished so many times this evening, she has lost count. Morgana watches Merlin flick his hand idly over the flame, over and over, wondering how long it will be before Arthur finds out about his manservant’s undeniable power.

“Merlin,” she says softly. He starts and the candle falls over, nearly lighting the table on fire. Morgana stares at him.

He takes a deep breath and straightens up the candle, picking at a bit of dried wax with his thumbnail. “Yes, my lady?” he murmurs politely.

“Have you ever thought about telling him?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, impregnating it with too many implications. She tastes blood in the back of her throat and raises a hand to rub at the skin on the side of her neck, swallowing discreetly. Merlin looks up from the ball of wax in his palm and smiles wryly.

“And have me killed? Not sure it’s worth the risk.” He laughs and the sound is choked, nervous. Morgana tilts her head to the side and sighs heavily.

“Arthur is not his father,” she says seriously. He locks eyes with her and she feels her spine tingle when his shine gold for the briefest second. She leans forward and puts both hands flat on the table. “He loves you.”

Behind her, the doors to Arthur’s chambers open and torchlight floods the room. Merlin looks over her shoulder and she turns her head. Arthur furrows his brow when he sees her, then turns his eyes to his servant. His features soften considerably and she bites her bottom lip to keep back her smile.

“Morgana,” he greets. “I hope Merlin hasn’t treated you too terribly in my absence.” A flood of questions – _Why are you here? Where is Sir Echolls? Why haven’t you_ moved _?_ – lurks beneath the words.

She rises from her seat and straightens her dress, though no wrinkles mar the fabric. “Good evening, Arthur,” she says coolly. “Merlin and I were merely chatting.” Her own questions – _Is Logan alright? When do we leave? How long do I have until I have to mourn the men I love?_ – also go unspoken. From the uncomfortable shift of Arthur’s shoulders, she knows that they have been understood.

“Lady Morgana was telling me stories of her childhood,” Merlin adds. He grins cheekily and rocks back on his heels, the picture of insubordination. “The way she tells it, you weren’t always the most gifted swordsmen in Camelot.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Oh, really? Clearly her stories are embellished to make herself appear more impressive, then.”

She laughs outright at that. “Have it your way, Arthur.” Dropping her hands at her sides, she nods at Merlin and walks past her pseudo-brother to the door. “I’ve already proven myself on the battlefield.”

Merlin’s excited chatter follows her out, followed by gruff responses from Arthur. She smiles to herself as she leaves, careful to pull the door shut behind her. She knows better than to stick around and wait for the argument to end.

\--

Gwen helps her ready for bed in silence and Morgana does her best not to fall asleep in the warm, trusted arms of her servant and friend. She literally falls into bed, bounces once and closes her eyes. She feels nauseous for the tang in her throat and the exhaustion in her bones, though she knows sleep will not help quell the feeling.

“Should I speak to Gaius about a stronger potion? You’ve been dead on your feet,” Gwen murmurs. Morgana feels her pull the covers up and around her shoulders, tucking them in at the sides to keep out the summer draft.

Her brow furrows and she opens her eyes slowly, staring up at her friend. Gwen’s eyes have dark circles under them and her shoulders are slumped in a way that reminds Morgana of the kitchen staff.

“I don’t think it would help,” she says honestly. Gwen stares at her for a long moment and then sits on the edge of the bed, reaching blindly for Morgana’s hand. Morgana winds their fingers together and props her head on her other arm, stroking her thumb gently across Gwen’s knuckles. “I wish you wouldn’t worry so much.”

Gwen rolls her eyes and smiles ruefully. “I think it’s unrealistic not to be concerned. We’re going to war, Morgana. There is so much that could—” Her breath hitches and she looks away for a moment. Morgana feels her throat tighten.

“Hey,” she whispers, squeezing her friend’s hand. Gwen stares determinedly at the floor. Morgana sits up slowly, crowding her, and uses her free hand to touch her chin. When Gwen reluctantly meets her eyes, she smiles as reassuringly as she can.

She wants to say something brilliant that will allow both of them to sleep easy tonight, but before she can think of something even remotely truthful, there is a knock at her door. Her smile turns sheepish as Gwen playfully rolls her eyes. The tension evaporates as Logan walks into the room.

He pauses when he sees the two of them and Morgana watches his face transform. Weariness turns into a leer as Gwen releases her hand and stands from the bed, nodding in deference and greeting him by his proper title.

“Hello Guinevere,” he greets with a cheeky grin. “Please don’t depart this lovely scene on my account.” He looks pointedly between her and the bed and Morgana bites the inside of her cheek.

Gwen flushes fiercely and shakes her head. “That’s quite alright,” she says softly. “I was merely wishing the Lady Morgana a good night’s rest. Goodnight, Sir Echolls.” She glances back at Morgana, a sly look in her eye, and then brushes past him to leave. The door clicks shut behind her.

Logan stares at her for a long moment and then smiles slowly. “Hello.”

She stretches both arms over her head, arching her back a bit as she stretches. His eyes stray from her face to her chest, the barest hint of flesh visible beneath the dip in her nightgown. With a quiet laugh, she sinks back into the mattress. “Don’t I get a proper greeting?”

A moment later, the bed dips next to her as Logan crawls into her space, crowding her as he presses soft kisses across the bridge of her nose. “Where were you today?” he whispers.

“Staying out of the way,” she replies, just as softly. “Merlin and I spent some time together. It was quite lovely, really.”

He pulls back a bit and leans on one elbow, trailing his other hand down her arm. Morgana rests a hand against his chest.

“The rumors of Arthur’s ferocity are nothing compared to the real thing,” he tells her. His eyes are wide, almost frightened.

“When he sees injustice, he eradicates it,” she agrees. “Unless, of course, it involves magic. Then he turns a blind eye.”

“You don’t blame him,” he says softly. There is no question in the words and the comment deserves no answer. Morgana does not blame Arthur for his public opinion of sorcery. She merely wishes he had the ability – the _backbone_ — to tell his father how he really feels.

Her throat feels thick when he kisses her again and she pulls back after a long moment, licking the salty tang of imaginary blood from her lips. She sighs heavily and leans into him, rolling him back into the mattress as she kisses him again.

Large hands frame her waist as she presses against him, tugging at his tunic while he pulls at the material of her gown. “How long?” she whispers. Her voice cracks before she can finish the question.

“Three days,” he replies, hearing it anyway.

Morgana closes her eyes and falls into him with a quiet sigh. Three days until she has to fear death, until she has to mourn the potential loss of the men she loves. She pushes the scent and taste of blood to the back of her mind and bites down on Logan’s jaw as he strips her of her clothing.

\--

The next morning, she wakes before the sun and Logan is gone. Morgana lies completely still for a long moment and then breathes in, sharp.

Gwen bursts into the room moments later with a panicked expression. Morgana clenches her fingers in the sheet for a moment and then slips out of bed. Cold air chills her naked flesh and she pulls a gown over her head without bothering to check if it is clean.

Time never flows the way it is supposed to in Camelot.

\--

“Arthur!” she shouts, dodging between knights and servants alike. He continues to speak to Merlin, oblivious to her call. She rolls her eyes and speeds up her gait, grabbing someone’s arm for support when she nearly trips over a stray tunic.

When she looks up, she comes face to face with Uther. He takes one look at her outfit – men’s trousers and a tunic – and he is instantly furious. Morgana stands up straight and rests her hands on her hips, defiant.

“Absolutely not,” Uther hisses. “If you think you are going to battle with that heathen, you can—”

“You can’t stop me,” she interrupts. He hisses a breath between his teeth and turns away for a moment, all leather and irritation. “I can fight better than half of Arthur’s knights and keep up with the rest. If Camelot is going to war, I intend to fight for my kingdom,” she says firmly.

“And so help me, I will lock you away until you are too weak to do so,” he threatens, turning back to her. Morgana swallows hard and consciously stays where she is. If she steps back, she has no chance.

“Arthur!” she calls again, louder this time. The prince looks up from his conversation and furrows his brow when he sees her, though he does not appear surprised. She walks toward him with determination. Behind her, Uther groans and follows, boots clicking harshly against stone.

“Morgana,” Arthur greets. He glances over her shoulder and then flicks his eyes back to hers, raising an eyebrow. She shakes her head once and taps the sword in her belt, smiling brilliantly. He looks at her hand and then sighs heavily. “You know I can’t—”

Her smiles disappears. “Uther cannot stop me and neither can you,” she hisses.

“Morgana, I do not want to hurt you,” Uther says firmly. She and Arthur look up simultaneously to see the king standing between them, arms crossed over his chest. “Do not make me treat you as a criminal.”

“If you do not want to treat me as a criminal, then allow me the freedom to choose my own path,” she replies. “I have been to battle before and I will go to battle again.”

Both men stare at her for a long moment, seemingly dumbfounded. Morgana straightens up and narrows her eyes, firming her mouth into a straight line. “I’ll have Gwen ready my horse,” she whispers.

As she walks away, she sees Merlin duck his head to hide a smile. The triumph in her chest almost blocks out the scent of blood in her nostrils and the sting of smoke in her eyes. She carefully avoids thinking of the nightmares she has been having and ignores the burn of Logan’s imploring look as she searches for her servant.

\--

They ride to the border of Neptonia in silence. Morgana and Gwen follow just behind Arthur and Merlin, who occasionally exchange glances that are heavy with significance. Morgana tilts her head to the side each time, curious as to when they grew so close that they could communicate with raised eyebrows and quirked mouths.

She can feel the eyes of the men behind her burning into her back as she rides, gently guiding her horse through the woods surrounding Camelot. Morgana keeps her head up and her eyes forward and when they stop for the night to set up camp, mere miles separating them from the opposing forces of Lord Echolls, she makes sure to keep her sword tucked tight against her side. 

Her tent rests next to Arthur’s, barely any ground separating the two cloth shelters. Morgana can hear him planning a route of attack, vehemently disagreeing with Uther more often than she expects. She sits close to the candle light, worriedly tugging at her hair and watching Gwen polish her new armor.

“Gwen,” she says softly. Her friend glances up and then resumes her work, an acknowledgment. Morgana contemplates making a grand gesture, some sort of speech in case this is the last time she can ever express her love for the woman before her.

Uther interrupts before she gets the chance. Both women glance up as he pokes his head into the tent, hand held before his face to shield his eyes. “May I come in?”

“Yes, my lord,” Morgana replies. She stands slowly as he lowers his hand, coming fully into the room. Gwen retreats to a corner, lighting another candle so that she can see as she works.

He barely glances at Gwen, eyes focused entirely on his ward. Uther looks at Morgana for a long moment and then sighs forcefully. “I do not think it appropriate that you are here,” he says honestly. She narrows her eyes and he holds up a hand. “However, I admire your determination to fight for this kingdom,” he continues. “I know you and Sir Echolls have grown quite close since his exile from Neptonia and I think it is important that you are here to support him. My fear is that your presence will distract the knights of Camelot on the battlefield because they will worry for your safety and not their own.”

“My knights have been trained to fight,” Arthur says. The mouth of the tent opens around his frame as he enters the room, fierce determination on his face. Morgana smiles as Uther turns to him. “Should they choose to save the Lady Morgana, it will be with nobility and intent. They are not weak,” he says seriously. After a pause, he looks at her and smirks. “And neither is she.”

Uther raises himself up and steps into Arthur’s space, pointing a stern finger at his son. “I have heard enough from you this evening,” he hisses. “You may be the prince of Camelot but I am still the king. You will follow my orders.”

Arthur swallows audibly. “Yes, Sire.” He glances away and Uther takes his leave without a goodbye. Morgana watches him go, heart pounding thickly with pride. She can see Arthur pulling away, growing a spine, and it makes her head swim with possibility.

When she is certain that Uther has gone back to his own tent, she steps forward and smiles as Arthur meets her eyes. “Thank you,” she says sincerely.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he scoffs.

“You can’t take it back now,” she teases. “You know as well as I that Lord Echolls’ men will cower before my sword, especially since they will have no idea that I am a _mere woman_.”

He licks his bottom lip and turns away, scratching the back of his head. “You know, you’ve all these mad ideas in your head that you’re some sort of warrior just because you beat me in some practice duels when we were children.” He snorts and throws his arms in the air. “My own bloody servant thinks you’re some sort of secret weapon.”

In the corner, Gwen giggles to herself. Arthur glances at her, incredulous. She puts a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Morgana laughs as well. “ _Merlin_ worships the very ground you walk on.” She grins. “Your jealousy is founded in insecurities that are not of my making.”

He flushes the color of his tunic. “I am not _jealous_!”

Gwen snorts again and hides her face behind Morgana’s armor. He pays her no heed, focusing completely on the woman in front of him. Morgana raises both eyebrows and takes a step back, bowing her head in respect.

“My mistake,” she concedes. “But you should know that what I say is true. Merlin loves you.”

“Oh, don’t—”

“Stop it, Arthur,” she murmurs. Her brow furrows and he stops speaking abruptly, staring at her in some sort of wonder. She walks toward him and rests both hands on his chest, locking eyes with him. “I know you well, Arthur Pendragon,” she says quietly. “Your affections might not be obvious to everyone, but they are obvious to me. We are about to go to war and here you are, belittling me when your time could be much better spent elsewhere.”

She steps back and tilts her head with a small smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get some sleep.”

He shakes his head, as though pulling himself from a daze. “Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says firmly. “Gwen. Morgana.” He nods to each of them and then leaves, a goal in his stride.

“You’re very meddlesome sometimes,” Gwen comments.

Morgana continues to stare at the mouth of her tent until she hears Arthur enter his own, Merlin’s name softly called. The other man replies and then there is a soft clatter, like something being dropped, followed by silence. She smiles to herself and then turns to her friend. “Sometimes it’s necessary to be meddlesome.”

She cannot help thinking of Logan when she says it.

\--

Gwen has been asleep for hours when Morgana finally gives up and leaves the tent. She wraps her riding cloak around her shoulders and feels her way through the dark, unsteady footsteps and limited torchlight guiding her way. Arthur has placed his men all around the campsite in case of attack; she knows that many of them are asleep in their tents, awaiting their turn to act as watchdogs.

A quick search reveals that Logan is one of the men in waiting. Morgana slips into his tent and wakes Richard, a hand over his mouth to keep him from crying out. He blinks several times, even after he has surely adjusted to the darkness. She rolls her eyes and points to the mouth of the tent, eyebrows raised significantly.

Richard waggles his in return and she snatches her hand back when his lips start to curve into a grin against her palm. He scrambles up and out of the tent, completely lacking grace. There is a small scuffle outside when he runs into one of the men and Morgana laughs softly.

Shedding her cloak, she crawls over to her lover and sits on her knees next to him. He sleeps with his face screwed up in irritation, as though his dreams are of the forthcoming battle. Morgana rests her hand on his chest. Her skin feels like it is on fire, the air so thick with the scent of blood not yet shed that she can hardly breathe. She leans down and kisses him slowly, feels the moment when he wakes.

Logan pushes up against her and she folds down to meet him, cupping his face in her hands. “Morgana,” he whispers. She slips her tongue into his mouth as an answer to the question in his tone.

“Please,” she gasps. He grabs her hips and pulls her over him until their positions are flipped and he is on top, cradled between her thighs. The material of her nightgown pulls taught between her spread thighs, creating an awkward cradle that separates their bodies in a most unpleasant way.

“Morgana,” he repeats. He pants against her neck, kisses her pulse point, her ear lobe, her jaw. “Fuck,” he murmurs brokenly. She tangles her fingers in his hair and holds him against her.

“I have seen what happens,” she whispers. There are tears in her eyes and she hates herself in so many ways. “Tomorrow,” she continues. “Logan, I’ve seen it in my nightmares—”

He kisses her soundly and slides a hand down her side, slipping his fingers across her waist. He pulls back and grabs the hem of her nightgown with both hands, tugging it up until he can touch her skin. Morgana pulls his hair hard and he groans low, presses a kiss to her inner thigh. She tilts her head back as he slides the material further up, revealing her stomach.

His mouth follows the path his hands have burned into her skin and she loses her train of thought. It flickers and floats away as he slides his tongue into her navel, mimicking a pattern she has grown familiar with in other ways.

Logan sits up and pulls her up with him, all but ripping her gown off. Morgana looks him in the eyes and swallows thickly. His pupils are blown and his cheeks are hot to the touch. She traces her fingers across his face and kisses him, sloppily, all tongue and too many teeth. He lays her back down and burns a trail down her neck, laving and biting until she is writhing beneath him.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers. She tilts her head back and moans, choked and too sad for what the comment warrants. He kisses her stomach, almost like an apology, and then his fingers slip between her thighs and her ears start to ring.

“Logan,” she whispers. “Come here.” He keeps his hand where it is, stroking her slowly as he kisses her. His tongue slicks across her teeth and then tangles with hers, tight and needy. Morgana fights for dominance even as she pushes her hips wantonly against his hand, fingers stretching her as his thumb flicks the most sensitive point on her body.

She nearly tears his tunic as she pulls it off, so determined to keep their mouths attached that she has no concern for the thin material. He laughs against her mouth and pulls back, his fingers leaving her long enough to get the shirt out of the way before he shoves three digits inside of her, curling them against a spot that makes her cry out and arch into him, spine quivering with the force of her climax.

He kisses her slowly and strokes her as she comes down. Then he skims a sticky hand up her side, pausing to tweak her nipple as she bites at the back of her hand and relaxes into his blankets.

“I love you like this,” he whispers against her neck. She closes her eyes and slips her hands down, taking his trousers with her as she pulls her knees up and uses her feet to push them down his legs. Logan helps her kick them away and then settles hot and heavy between her thighs, his hardness brushing against her. “You’re a mess,” he continues. “We’re fighting in a bloody battle come morning and you’re falling apart at the seams.”

The words are painfully accurate for so many reasons. Morgana comes back to herself when she hears them and she opens her eyes, gasping as she pulls his hair hard enough to make him look at her.

“Logan,” she says seriously. He smiles at her and her heart breaks. Before she can continue, he slips inside her and her eyes roll back as she arches into him. He fucks her slowly, presses kisses to every bit of skin he can reach and then slides his mouth over hers, swallowing her moans.

She rolls her hips against his, impatient until he moves faster, harder. When he does she digs her nails into his shoulder blades and rakes her hands down, surely leaving marks in her wake. He groans into her mouth and she wraps her legs firmly around his hips, tilting up until he hits that spot on every downward thrust.

“Morgana,” he gasps as he pulls away and then shudders deep inside her. Morgana mouths an apology against his shoulder and follows him over the edge, clinging to him as he collapses on top of her.

When her legs stop quivering, she gently lowers them and pushes at his chest. Logan rolls over and pulls her against his side, but Morgana resists. He looks at her questioningly and she shakes her head.

“You’re on guard soon.” She shrugs and offers an apologetic smile.

“Right,” he murmurs. Then he grins sardonically. “Wouldn’t want Arthur finishing me off before my father even gets the chance.”

Her eyes widen in horror, sand and blood and laughter filling her head so fast she feels like she might faint. He sits up quickly and grabs her shoulders, lowering his head until she looks him in the eyes. “Morgana,” he murmurs. “It’s going to be fine.”

Tears fill her eyes and stream down her face before she can stop them. He chuckles softly and wipes them away, kissing her gently on the tip of the nose. “We’ll make it through,” he promises. “We’re too young to do anything but.”

She thinks of all the men who have died at enemy swords, arrogant and determined to prove themselves to Prince Arthur of Camelot, the noblest of knights. With a shake of her head, she fakes a nervous laugh and leans into him. Their foreheads touch and she exhales roughly.

“Have faith,” he says.

Morgana pulls away and gets dressed without another word. Despite the bone-deep, relaxed sort of exhaustion she feels, her heart is pounding and her stomach is rolling. She kisses him goodbye and steals through the mouth of his tent, silently rushing back to her own.

Two minutes later, she hears the guards rousing the other men to report for their shifts.

Tonight, the dreams never come.

\--

Morning comes and everyone is too silent.

Arthur’s commands ring through the trees, absorb into the bodies and minds of his knights. Morgana keeps her hand on her sword and watches him, proud and terrified and determined all at once.

When they break to gather weapons and make last-minute repairs to their armor, she watches her pseudo-brother turn to his servant and frame his face with both hands. They stare at each other for a long time and then Merlin grins and rests his hands over Arthur’s. The prince’s shoulders relax just slightly and he playfully shoves the dark-haired man away.

Her heart stutters and she turns away. She envies them for reasons she cannot bear to acknowledge.

A voice in her head whispers, _survival is not the key to happiness_.

She ignores it.

\--

Blood has been spilled for both armies after just ten minutes on the battlefield. Morgana rides hard and stabs her sword through another knight, catching him off guard when she ducks under his arm and then slams her arm backwards, cutting his shoulder through a hole in his armor. He cries out and drops his sword, grabbing at his arm as blood drips through the chain mail, coating his armor in red.

She breathes through her mouth and uses the nausea stirring in her throat to push her forward, into another Neptonian man. He spars with her for a moment and she turns her horse around until she rears back, kicking the other man with such ferocity that he falls to the ground. His horse takes off toward the safety of the woods.

Morgana wishes him well. It is not the horse’s fault, after all.

No one else charges her and she takes the spare second to glance around the field, taking stock of who is left. Neither Lord Echolls nor Uther has stepped into the battle yet and she fears the fight might go on for hours before they do.

Her eyes lock on Merlin, who has positioned himself near a tree and is surreptitiously launching the men of Neptonia into the wrong end of Camelot’s swords, eyes golden bright and glowing.

She feels a fierce desire to join him, but knows her own magic is limited to unwanted visions and that she is only helpful as long as she has a sword in her hand.

A horse gallops past her and she turns, ducking a blow aimed at her neck just in time. The sword swings over her helmet with a sharp sound as it cuts through the air and she turns sharply to defend herself.

The knight comes to a stop a few feet from her and then urges his horse forward, sword held horizontally. Morgana kicks her own horse into a gallop and swings the sword hard enough to slam his arm down, the sword too much weight for a broken bone to withstand.

He falls to the side as his horse continues trotting forward and she turns around, riding past and knocking his head off as she goes. The blood splatters her trousers and she closes her eyes for the shortest of moments, breathing carefully.

None of these men deserve to die. Their loyalty is to a sick man with a black heart, but they do not know any better. She understands how they feel.

\--

When her horse cannot run anymore, Morgana dismounts and sends her into the safety of the woods. She continues on foot, sparring with a determined knight for so long and with such intent that she does not see the second man approaching from her right. 

He swings and hits her hard in the back, jarring her enough that her spine feels like it catches fire. Morgana backs up and attempts to defend herself from both men simultaneously, frantically searching over their shoulders for a knight of Camelot to assist her.

There is no one in the vicinity. The rest of the men are yards away, battling a small wave of men that came after the horses had been abandoned and the majority of men were on the ground, injured or dead.

An idea comes to her just as she is backed up against a tree and forced to duck between the men and turn around as they both swing for her head. “ _Merlin!_ ” she screams. Last time she saw him, he was watching Arthur with tears in his eyes, trying to work a spell that was obviously not going the way he wanted. When she had turned to look at the prince, he was bleeding from his good arm and swinging with the other. He appeared ready to collapse at any moment.

“ _Merlin!_ ” she screams again. Her voice is harsh and she feels hysterical. The two men are laughing at her and she continues to back toward the rest of the battle, hoping someone will notice before she loses miserably.

She swings at one of them and he jumps back. The other takes advantage of her vulnerability and lunges, stabbing her in the side. The chain mail gives and she feels the blade push into her skin, a silent scream pouring from her mouth.

Before he can inflict any more damage, he shoots backwards and slams against a wide tree trunk, dropping to the ground. The pain in her side is fierce and she can barely see through the screen of tears. When she turns to find the other man, he too is flying through the air to join his compatriot.

“Morgana!” Merlin shouts. She looks around frantically, clutching her side. “Morgana,” he repeats. He is closer now, grabbing her and pulling her away from the field. He pulls her helmet off and frames her face in both hands, looking her in the eye.

The tears stream down her cheeks, clearing her vision, and she gapes at him. Each breath is a gasp and it _hurts_ but she nods, closes her mouth to swallow.

“Merlin,” she whispers. Her breath hitches and she sobs brokenly, lifting her hand from her side. She clutches her sword with her right hand, compulsively tightening her fist around the hilt as it rests in the dirt next to her thigh.

“You’re going to be okay,” he promises. He stares deep into her eyes and raises his eyebrows imploringly. “Do you trust me?”

She stares at him blankly for a long moment. “Yes,” she whispers. “I trust you. _Merlin_ , I trust you.”

He smiles at her and then folds her bloody hand into his, not even wincing at the sticky, cold sensation. She keeps her eyes on his as they turn gold and he presses both of their hands to her side. He mutters something in the old language, rough and dirty, and the pain is gone as suddenly as it began.

“Go help Arthur and Logan,” he whispers. She lunges forward and kisses him on impulse, then grabs her helmet from his hand and puts it back on her head.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He smiles wryly and she runs out from the trees, pride and vengeance slick and hot in her veins. She helps a young knight of Camelot fight off two of his own Neptonian men and stains the soil with their blood.

It is not until she can feel victory in the air that a hush falls over the battle field and men on both sides seem to freeze in mid-swing. Morgana looks over her shoulder and sees Uther riding toward her, shouting at someone to halt.

She turns in the opposite direction and sees a familiar figure striding further into Neptonia, sword raised in both hands. Arthur is near him, fighting for his life, covered in even more blood than he was last time she saw him.

In front of Logan, carrying his own sword as he dismounts from his horse, is a dark-haired man who looks so much like her lover it makes her gasp. Lord Echolls marches forward, manic glee written all over his face before he reaches up to lower the mask on his helmet.

“ _Logan!_ ” she screams. The clash of swords and thud of bodies makes it impossible for him to hear her, she knows, but she continues to scream as she pushes her way toward him. She kills two men and leaves one to the capable hands of another knight before she makes it to the edge of the battle.

When she does, two arms firmly grip her shoulders and yank her back. She swings around and Arthur blocks her sword with his, glaring at her through the slit in his helmet. She narrows her eyes and swings her arm around, turning back to her lover.

Once again, he grabs her shoulders. This time, he shouts her name in her ear and demands that she gets back in the fray and leave the Echolls to their battle. She jerks away from him and then stops dead as Lord Echolls and Logan engage in combat, matching each other blow for blow.

Her ears ring with the clash of their swords and everything else seems to grow silent as she stares, fixated by their circling. Arthur drags her backwards and she stumbles along with him before jerking her arm back and raising her sword. Lord Echolls is turned away from her now and it would only take a few steps to lodge her sword in the small of his back.

As though Arthur is reading her thoughts, he wraps both arms around her chest and lifts, hauling her back and then launching her into the battle. She is forced to turn her attention away from her lover as a man charges at her, screaming at the top of his lungs.

It takes her too long to defeat him because she is so distracted. She takes several hits and can barely catch her breath by the time he is on the ground, her sword pressed firmly against his throat.

She looks across the field as she carelessly slits his throat, the gurgling sound no longer enough to make her sick. When she finally spots the Echolls men, her heart starts pounding and then comes to a dead stop.

Lord Echolls brings his sword down at an angle that sends Logan sprawling to the ground, clutching his sword in one hand and his shoulder in the other. He folds in on himself and she can practically hear him swearing.

The last of Neptonia’s knights falls and Camelot charges forward, Uther on horseback bringing up the rear. Morgana stays where she is, unable to make her legs work as Lord Echolls brings his sword down again.

She does not see it hit Logan because Camelot’s army confuses the scene and she falls to the ground, abandons her helmet and retches on the dirt. Her stomach is empty and she feels the acidic burn of bile as it slips up her throat, across her tongue and out.

All she can smell is blood.

\--

She has no recollection of going back to camp beyond Merlin finding her and pulling her to his chest, hugging her tightly. Morgana wakes in her tent, a dull throb behind her eyes making even the act of sitting up more difficult than it should be.

“My lady,” Gwen murmurs. A moment later, her friend is at her side, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead and urging her to lie back. “You have to take it easy.”

“Lord Echolls…” she whispers.

“He has been detained,” Gwen says softly. She strokes her hand across Morgana’s cheek and then takes the cloth away, refreshing it in a small bowl of water by her side. “He is set to be executed upon the return to Camelot.”

Morgana opens her eyes slowly and they immediately fill with tears. “Gwen,” she whispers. Gwen simply wipes her tears away and shakes her head.

“You need rest. Your injuries need to heal.”

She furrows her brow and lifts her arm to feel her body. Her shoulder smarts and she gasps at the sensation, immediately dropping her arm back down. Gwen nods once and tucks her back into her blanket.

“Arthur brought you back to camp on his horse,” she explains. “You fainted in the middle of the field.”

“He’s dead,” Morgana whispers. “Oh God, Gwen, _he’s dead_.” She closes her eyes tightly and pushes her face into her friend’s hand, seeking comfort.

There is a heavy silence and then Gwen strokes her cheek with her thumb. She sounds like she is laughing. Confused, Morgana opens her eyes and stares in horror at the other woman.

“Who’s dead, my lady?” she asks softly. There is a small smile on her face.

Morgana chokes on the word for several seconds. “Logan.”

Gwen widens her eyes. “Oh my.”

“I watched him fall,” Morgana whispers. “I watched him fall and there was nothing I could do. Gwen, it was terrible…”

“He did fall, my lady,” she replies. “That does not mean he died.”

Morgana stares at her for a long moment. The laugh and the smile make sense, suddenly, and she sits up quickly, throwing her blankets off and rising to her feet. Gwen rises with her and reaches out to help but Morgana pushes her hands away and lurches into a gait that is too quick.

Her side and her shoulder ache with each step she takes so she speeds up, hoping to get to Logan’s tent before she collapses and is forced to rest. She has to see him. She has to.

Merlin grabs her arm just before she walks into the tent she slipped into last night and she turns, jerking away from him with a pained, teary gasp. He frowns and wraps an arm around her waist, carefully avoiding her bandages.

“He is not there, my lady,” he murmurs. Hatred wells in her heart; Gwen lied. “Gaius is treating him in his tent. Arthur and several of the others are there as well,” he rushes to explain.

She relaxes against him and buries her face in his shoulder, suddenly exhausted. “Why did Gaius treat me in my own tent?” The information seems important.

He chuckles and presses a friendly kiss to her hair. “You were unconscious, Morgana. He wanted you to be comfortable when you awoke.”

Her eyes slide shut and she leans into him more heavily. He adjusts his weight to hold her and grunts softly. Then she feels very light, almost as though she is floating, and if she were anywhere else she would shout at him for using his magic to keep her standing.

As it is, she lets him carry her back to her tent, magic easing every step. By the time he and Gwen have gotten her back beneath her blankets, she has fallen asleep.

\--

The next time she wakes, night has fallen. She can hear the men eating and talking, recounting the day’s events around the fire. Through bleary eyes she can see their shadows moving about outside her tent.

Her throat is too dry to speak, so she catches Gwen’s attention by clapping her hands. Her friend looks up from the bread she is eating and smiles with her mouth closed. She carefully sets down the food and crosses the tent, sitting on her knees next to Morgana.

“Drink,” she says softly, holding up a water skin. Morgana sips slowly and coughs after she pulls back, letting her eyes shut again as her head hits the ground. “How are you feeling?”

“Like my head was bashed in with a mace,” she says honestly. Her voice sounds like carriage wheels skating over gravel. Gwen laughs and offers her more water, which she drinks greedily.

After a moment she sits up and presses a hand to her injured shoulder. The pain is all but gone; the pain in her side is practically nonexistent as well. She silently thanks Merlin and looks at her servant imploringly.

“Will you help me?” she asks. Gwen smiles at her and stands, then reaches down to assist Morgana. Together they make their way out of the tent. Several of the knights spot them and nod respectfully. A certain camaraderie exists in their smirks that she has never seen before, but she thinks she feels more respect for them than she did, so she cannot say she minds.

Gaius’ tent is close, but still far enough that Morgana is panting by the time they reach it. She can hear Arthur speaking and she pauses as soon as she is close enough to make out the words, making Gwen stop with her.

“Fucking pervert,” Arthur hisses. Morgana swallows thickly and breathes through her nose. She can still smell blood, though the scent is not as strong as it was this afternoon.

A loud, rough laugh answers Arthur’s accusation and her heart beats wildly at the sound. “Yeah,” Logan agrees. “Had I known, I would have come to Camelot long ago.”

“I am sorry, Sir Echolls,” Arthur says. He sounds sincere. “Rest assured that he will no longer be able to hurt the people you love.”

“Thank you, Sire. If I may—”

“Lady Morgana cares very deeply for you,” he interrupts. “I must warn you that if any harm comes to her on your behalf, there will be severe consequences. In pursuing her affections you put not only her heart at risk, but also your life.”

She rolls her eyes and Gwen stifles a laugh against her shoulder, clenching her hand in her nightgown. Morgana grins and holds a finger to her lips, silently scolding her friend. Gwen shakes her head, tears of mirth in her eyes.

“Then I suppose I’d better make her happy,” Logan says wryly.

“You think I’m joking,” Arthur replies. “Logan, let me assure you—”

“That the Lady Morgana can take perfectly good care of herself,” Morgana says loudly, walking into the tent. Arthur’s eyes widen and she glares at him harshly. He is standing at the side of the tent, his arm and neck heavily bandaged. Idly, she wonders if tonight will be the night that Merlin finally reveals himself for what he can do.

“You’re alright,” Logan breathes. Morgana turns away from Arthur and inhales sharply when she sees him. He is sitting against a wooden table leg, a gash on his face that will surely scar and several bandages wrapped around his arm and torso. The blanket pools at his waist and the bandage that covers his side continues beyond its hem.

“As are you,” she replies, just as breathlessly.

“I believe that’s our cue, Guinevere,” Arthur says loudly. Morgana ignores him and walks forward, carefully climbing into Logan’s lap and kissing him soundly. He presses into her as much as he can, wincing away when the pressure on his torso is too much.

Outside the tent, she hears Arthur loudly teasing Merlin for being such a worrywart and she grins helplessly. Logan runs his hands down her arms and stares at her. She stares back, memorizing the gash on his face just as she has memorized all of his other marks.

“I told you we’d make it through,” he murmurs. He smirks and she laughs, the sound painful in her still-parched throat.

“Yes,” she agrees. He kisses her again. “We are too young to die,” she whispers into his mouth. Logan bites her bottom lip and tugs, heated. The sensation shoots straight down her spine and pools between her thighs.

“Not too young to love,” he murmurs. Morgana gently wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him hotly, open-mouthed and wet. He groans and she pants against his jaw, skimming her mouth over the cut on his cheek.

“No,” she hisses. “Not too young for that.”


End file.
